


Pragmatic

by Caepio



Category: Ancient History RPF, Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF, Julius Caesar - Shakespeare
Genre: Birthday Gift Fic, Established Relationship, M/M, Morning After, Secret Relationship, gallic wars, mentioned - Freeform, vaguely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 16:49:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19066675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caepio/pseuds/Caepio
Summary: An early morning before Antony leaves for Gaul.(Happy Birthday, Corvo!)





	Pragmatic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Corvo (Duchess_Of_York)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duchess_Of_York/gifts).



> This could take place anywhere between 54 and 50 BC. I wasn't being too specific.

Brutus watches as Antony gets out of bed, stretching in the predawn light. He sits up, reaching out and pressing his palm between Antony’s shoulder blades, tracing out the marks and scratches he’d left the night before.

“You can’t stay?”

Antony laughs, catching Brutus’ hand. “Really?” He turns and tugs Brutus up onto his knees, tilting his head, pressing a light, teasing kiss to his mouth. “Stay any longer and you’ll kick me out.” He slides his fingers through Brutus’ hair, casually affectionate, and then pulls away. He starts looking for his clothes, dragging one of his sandals out from under the bed.

Brutus leans back against the headboard, his gaze following Antony around the room as he gathers his things.

“I wouldn’t _mind_ if you stayed.” 

Antony doesn’t look at him, shaking the dust clear of his lacerna and setting it on the window sill. “Getting sentimental?”

“No.” Brutus draws his knees up, wrapping his arms around them.

Antony grins, “ _You can say._ I like knowing I have an effect.”

“It’s not sentimentality. It’s practicality. You’ll be gone a while. Months.”

“Might even be years.”

“Yes.” Brutus picks at the edge of the blanket, unravelling a thread. “Should get what I can out of you now, shouldn’t I?”

Antony drops his sandals and launches himself at Brutus, grabbing him and tumbling him down into the bed. He presses kisses across Brutus’ shoulders, his neck, his forehead. Brutus struggles to breathe for laughing, half heartedly trying to shove Antony off, twisting away, pressing closer, torn. 

Antony pulls Brutus on top of him, settling his hands on his waist, rubbing circles above his hips. “It’ll be fine.” He says, soothing, confident, teasing. “Miss me too much - Just go walk around the Aventine, spy on my friends. You’ll remember all the reasons you hate me. You’ll stop caring whether or not I come home.”

Brutus rests his hands flat on Antony’s shoulders, pressing down slightly, examining his expression like he’s looking for a fault line. “Do you think that would work?”

Antony shrugs, sliding his hands down from Brutus’ waist, along his hips, down to his knees. “It’s what you always seem to be thinking, when you _deign_ to come to my part of town.”

Brutus bites his lip, worrying it between his teeth. And then he pulls away suddenly, rolling off of Antony. He lies on his back next to him, a foot of distance between them, staring up at the ceiling. “You’re wrong.” 

Antony pushes himself up, frowning, “Brutus… You don't like me. I know you don’t. You like _this_. Whatever you want to _call it_. I’m not delusional. We’ll pick it up again when I come back, or maybe we won’t, but I doubt you’ll notice I’m gone. You’d have to _care_ for that to happen.”

Brutus sits up, staring intently at the foot of the bed. 

“You’ll find someone else.” Antony goes on, watching him, a little uncomfortable with the intensity of Brutus’ focus. He tries to jostle him out of whatever mood he’s in: “Buck up. Where’s your pragmatism? You’ll have found someone else, or gotten over this entirely, before I've come back.”

Brutus laughs, sudden and surprising. Antony can’t tell if he’s amused at himself, at what Antony said, or something unspoken he refuses to voice. 

“ _Come back,_ ” he says, "And we’ll find out.”

Abruptly, Brutus pushes Antony down, straddling him. He kisses him, too hard, demanding, like he wants to leave a mark. He bites at Antony’s lower lip, slides the tip of his tongue along the roof of Antony’s mouth, more invasive than he usually is. 

He tangles his fingers through Antony’s hair, holding him still, not letting him pull away, not letting him take control. Antony can feel him getting hard again, he grabs Brutus’ hips, thinking - _I don’t have to go. I can stay a little more. They’ll wait for me-_

But Brutus pulls away, hands on Antony’s shoulders, keeping him where he is. He stares at him for a long time, catching his breath, cataloguing Antony’s expression, the way his hair curls, the scars he already carries, his frustration as Brutus remains maddeningly still above him. And then, so smoothly it could be practiced, Brutus climbs off of him. He picks Antony’s tunic up off the floor, tugs it over his head, and walks out of the room. “Safe travels.” He calls. And Antony hears the study door close at the end of the hall.

Antony stares at the doorway for a moment, unsettled, a little stunned. And then he stands up, getting out of bed like he’s not entirely sure the floor will be there to support him. He finds Brutus’ tunic tangled with the blankets at the foot of the bed. He considers the subtly embroidered hem - _no austerity like a rich man’s_ \- and then shrugs and pulls it on, buckling his belt and tugging up the hemline till it suits him and not a more reputable, balanced, disinterested- _No. None of those words were quite right._ He’d thought they were. He isn’t sure now. It occurs to him that Brutus always fights the implication he's inherited his uncle’s stoicism wholesale. 

As he’s leaving, Antony thinks he hears the study door open again, but he doesn’t see Brutus, or hear footsteps. He lets himself out the side gate of the courtyard, like he always does, anonymous in his pleb-fabric cloak and Brutus’ sober colours. 

He’ll be late. And someone might complain, and make a few mocking, rough jokes, but they’ll assume it was Fulvia. Or Cytheris. Or any number of other people. And though Caesar might raise an eyebrow at his uncharacteristic clothing, he doubts anyone would believe that it belongs to Brutus. He knows no one could believe that Brutus would do anything as sentimental, as demonstrative, as fond as take a soldier’s clothes - Something to hold on to, until they return.


End file.
